


this is his body, this is his love

by vulnavias



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Altar Sex, Anal Sex, Communion | Eucharist, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 10:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulnavias/pseuds/vulnavias
Summary: Copia takes communion and also a dick. Religious themes, smut with bonus Feels - you know, more of the same.





	this is his body, this is his love

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after [we'll build our altar here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16130975).
> 
> Light ritual blood drinking (takes place before the sex, not during). I don't know anything about Catholic or Satanic rituals, I'm just making shit up that sounds vaguely erotic.

Ritual days are busy for Copia. If Papa is away on tour (or simply missing in action as he often is when it comes to many of the more mundane papal duties) it falls on Copia or Sister Imperator to conduct the ceremonies. They typically delegate the regular weekly services to lower-ranking clergy members, but some rituals require a bit more reverence and experience than others.

Copia has lead the monthly communion ritual dozens of times and had expected to do so again today. However, as he makes his way down the hall to the main chapel, he is surprised to find Papa standing at the doorway, greeting devotees as they file inside. Even before leaving for the last tour it had been months since Papa attended a ritual. In fact, he has probably attended fewer rituals in his entire tenure than any Papa before him. Many among the clergy aren't thrilled about his conduct, though there is little they can do but grumble.

It has been just over a week since Papa returned from tour, since the night of their reunion, and Copia has spent most nights since in Papa's bed. The past two evenings, unfortunately, Sister Imperator has kept him working exceptionally late, so by the time he finished, Papa had already retired for the night and Copia was forced to sleep alone is his own cold, empty bed. He has desperately missed Papa's warmth – among other things.

Papa is watching him. He kisses a few hands and greets each person as they file into the chapel, but his eyes don't leave Copia for long. Copia feels a slight tightness in his chest as he approaches, wanting so much to reach out and touch him, kiss him, bury his face in his chest, but knowing that he cannot. When he finally reaches the head of the line, he stands only inches away from Papa and meets his gaze head-on. 

They don't speak. Copia bows his head reverently in greeting and Papa nods in return. A small, sly smile is on his lips as if he knows just what Copia has been thinking. Faint bruises peek out from Papa’s collar, remnants of their first night together upon his return. They’ve almost faded entirely, easily missed by anyone who never knew they were there, but Copia takes notice of each remaining mark with pride. Hesitant to end the moment but also aware of the people lining up behind him, Copia steps aside and moves inside the chapel. Papa's hand reaches out slightly, a move hardly noticeable under the folds of his robe, and brushes Copia’s arm as he passes. The light touch sends a shiver through him, and he hopes it's a promise of more to come later, when they're alone.

It has only been three months since he last took communion, so Copia is merely here to observe, not to participate. He takes an empty seat toward the back of the chapel. He nods to Sister Imperator, who catches his eye at the far end of the room, flanked by newly ordained Sisters who will take their first communion as members of the Unholy Order. Eventually, all the seats are filled and the door closes. Papa takes his place at the altar in the front of the chapel, a large, ornate inverted cross behind him and one of the senior Sisters of Sin at his side, ready to assist. The ritual begins.  
Conducting the rite of communion requires practice and discipline. You might not know it given his usual negligence, but Papa does possess both. He invites the spirit of their Infernal Master into his body, cuts his hand, and bleeds into the sacred chalice for the congregation to drink. Some believe it is purely symbolic, but Copia is among those who interpret it more literally, having conducted the ritual himself and felt a distinct presence when he invited Lucifer's spirit into his body.

He feels it now, too, when Papa calls upon their Dark Lord. There's a change in the air, almost imperceptible, but those familiar with His presence know it when they feel it, and it makes the hair on Copia's arms stand up. Something shifts in Papa too; Copia wonders if everyone else notices it as well or if it's only because he knows Papa so intimately that he can pick up on the change. One he has filled the chalice with the blood of their Lord, Papa then releases His Unholy Spirit. The air around them shifts back into place, the change that came over him dissipates and he returns to his old self.

But when the Sister takes Papa's hand and begins to bandage it, Copia feels another, unexpected change come over himself. Something passes between the two of them. Something in the way they look at each other – the way she looks up at Papa with heavy-lidded, flirtatious eyes and the way he smiles seductively back at her – makes Copia feel suddenly jealous.

Jealousy is not one of his vices. He knows Papa has many lovers and, while he likes to think that he holds some sort of special place among them, he ultimately does not begrudge him that. He understands that he will never be the only person in Papa’s life, though he may occasionally, privately allow himself to wish it could be otherwise. But things are the way they are and Copia has accepted that. They have made no commitment of monogamy, and certainly he is just as free to see other people as Papa is. He typically does not but that's his own choice, and he has made peace Papa's polyamorous ways. So he doesn't understand why now, why here, he suddenly feels the sting of jealousy over an exchange so small and meaningless. Papa is a charmer, flirtatious by nature, even to people in whom he has no romantic or sexual interest. But no matter how he tries to rationalize, Copia can't shake the gnawing feeling in his chest.

When Papa steps around to the front of altar and calls for all those who so desire to come forward to take communion, Copia is on his feet without even thinking. He kneels alongside a handful of others, including the new Sisters of Sin: young, beautiful, and all of them certainly hoping to catch Papa's eye. Copia refuses to be outshined. He is determined to make sure he, and _only_ he, is the center of Papa’s attention.

He waits, hands clasped at his chest, head bowed, the picture of perfect piety. After a minute or two, his knees begin to ache. He isn’t as young as he used to be and the hard marble floor isn’t ideal for holding this position for long, but that has never stopped him before (whether it be for religious purposes or… other things) and he doesn’t let it deter him now. He keeps his eyes cast firmly downward until Papa is at last standing in front of him.

Copia knows how to play him. He looks up with what Papa would playfully call his _bedroom eyes_ , meeting his gaze and holding it. He lifts his chin and opens his mouth, ready to take whatever is offered. An image of Papa feeding him his cock right there in front of everyone flits briefly through his mind. He hopes Papa’s thoughts are running along the same line.

Papa cups Copia’s chin with his free hand - an innocuous enough gesture given the context - but one heavy with meaning only understood by the two of them. “Hic est sanguis illius,” Papa says as he lifts the chalice to Copia’s lips. _This is His blood._ Copia savors the metallic taste on his tongue and swallows slowly, his eyes never leaving Papa’s as the fluid glides down his throat. The religious connotations are moot, the intended symbolism lost - or perhaps it simply takes on new meaning. He’s literally taking Papa inside himself in front of the entire congregation, making a very public display, though the underlying significance is unknowable to everyone else.

After Papa removes the cup, Copia makes a show of licking his lips. To Papa’s credit, he has a damn good poker face. Only his eyes give him away, if you know how to read him. Fortunately, Copia does. To anyone else he seems impassive, but his eyes tell Copia just how much this is affecting him. There’s also a hint of a warning in them, a promise that sends a thrill up Copia’s spine.

The entire exchange lasts only a few moments, with Papa lingering a little longer than usual but not long enough to attract attention. As he moves on, Copia bows his head again to create the illusion of prayer, only this time he moves his hands lower to hide the evidence of his arousal. He takes a minute to collect himself, settle his nerves and get his dick under control, before he he returns to his seat for the remainder of the ceremony.

When the ritual is over, the room bursts into a whirlwind of movement. A few people hang around, but most begin to file into the hallway, on their way to wherever they need to be. While Copia doesn’t need to be anywhere in particular, he knows exactly where he’d like to spend the rest of the day. But Sister Imperator has Papa cornered, no doubt recommending one of her favorites among the new Sisters for some important post, so Copia makes his way toward the exit with the others, with a half a mind to sneak off to Papa’s room and wait for him.

“Cardinal Copia.” Copia stops dead in his tracks at the sound of Papa’s voice, the way he rolls the _r_ in Cardinal going straight to his dick. “A word, please.”

Copia smiles to himself. He steps to the side and allows the others to pass, shakes a few hands and kisses Imperator on the cheek. Finally, the last person leaves and Copia closes the door, acutely aware of Papa’s presence behind him.

Before he can even turn around, Papa is on him, pulling him by his cassock and pressing him against the altar. His biretta and Papa’s mitre fall to the floor as Papa kisses him furiously, desperately. One hand tugs at Copia’s hair while the other snakes between his legs, squeezes his half-hard cock through the fabric and starts tugging at his belt. The flurry of movement and the sudden sensation leave Copia feeling just shy of sensory overload, but he catches up quickly and his body slides easily into place against Papa’s familiar form. He grabs Papa’s waist and kisses him back, giving as good as he’s getting, and he can’t help the contented sigh that escapes him or the swell of pride in his chest. Even after all the time that they’ve been like this - words like _together_ or _in a relationship_ swim through Copia’s mind but he rarely dares to let them float to the surface - it’s still a thrill to know that Papa desires him, that he wants him so much that he could hardly wait until they were alone to get his hands on him.

When Papa tears his mouth away, Copia tries to catch his breath. “You,” Papa growls, nipping his way down Copia’s neck, teeth grazing his throat, “are very distracting.”

Copia almost laughs but the sound is immediately cut off when Papa slides his leg between Copia’s and grinds their hips roughly together, the friction enough to make him dizzy even through the barrier of their robes. He’s very pleased with himself, with the response he’s gotten out of Papa, and though he knows he’s going to pay for it later, Copia smiles coyly, eyes wide and deceptively innocent. “Me?”

Papa kisses him again, bites his way into his mouth until Copia can taste the familiar tang of blood. He can do little but hold on, dig his fingers into Papa’s hips as they move against his own. Papa’s hands and mouth are all over him; he tugs at Copia’s collar, almost breaking it, in his need to for more skin to taste, licking and biting every inch he can reach.

“Don’t play innocent.” Papa punctuates the sentence with a kiss behind Copia’s ear. His teeth graze the the sensitive skin, his hands slide underneath Copia’s cassock, digging the gold nails of his gloves down into his ass. “You knew exactly what you were doing,” he says as he kisses Copia’s neck. “Teasing me,” kissing the curve of his jaw. “Tempting me.” His cheek. “Getting down on your knees for me.” His mouth.

Copia grounds himself in the glide of Papa’s tongue against his, in the heat of his body pressed against his own, in the weight of his cock and the sting of his nails as they dig deeper into his flesh. This time he breaks the kiss. “Is that how you want me? On my knees?”

He doesn’t have to wait for an answer. The way Papa groans when Copia sinks to the floor tells him all he needs to know. His knees protest again but he ignores the pain; the bruises he’ll have in the morning will be worth it. He keeps his eyes on Papa’s, just as he did earlier, only this time instead of communion he’s getting what he really wants. He fumbles a bit with the layers of Papa’s robes before Papa takes pity on him and discards them entirely. Copia is drawn in by the freshly exposed skin like a moth to a flame and he needs to touch and taste all of it. He rubs his hands up Papa’s stomach, down his sides, up his thighs and around to his ass, trailing light kisses along the way. But Papa doesn’t let him linger for long. His hand comes to rest at the nape of Copia’s neck, the touch gentle but insistent, the message clear: _get on with it._

Copia stops teasing, pausing to press his lips softly to the tip of Papa’s cock before taking him in his mouth in one fluid movement. He hollows his cheeks, rolls his tongue along the underside as he pulls back, and takes him a little deeper each time he sinks back down. He’s rewarded with soft, pleased sighs, whispers of encouragement, and Papa’s other hand tangling his hair, nails scraping his scalp. Copia knows he’s good at this - Papa isn’t the only lover he’s had to tell him so. He relishes the way he can take Papa apart so completely, so effortlessly, with only his mouth. He doesn’t even need to use his hands and instead he keeps him in his lap, palming his own, already hard cock through his robe.

The first time they did this, what feels like a lifetime ago, Papa was splayed out before him on his bed. With one hand fisted in the sheets and the other in Copia’s hair, he strained to keep his hips from thrusting up into Copia’s mouth, unsure at the time how much he could take. Since then, he has learned _exactly_ how much Copia can take, and Copia has learned exactly what Papa likes, which spots are the most sensitive, what will draw the sweetest sounds from him. He seals his lips around the head of Papa’s cock and sucks, teases the slit with his tongue, and Papa lets out a long moan. His grip on Copia’s hair tightens. Copia pauses to look up at him, knowing what a sight he must be - cheeks flushed, lips pink and stretched around his cock, face slick with saliva and precum. The hand that was on his neck moves to stroke his his cheek, an affectionate touch that Copia allows himself to savor.

Then he takes Papa all the way to the hilt, swallows around his cock until he feels the head meet the back of his throat. He takes Papa as deep as he can, for as long as he can, before his eyes begin to sting, his throat starts to ache and his lungs beg for air. He pulls off and barely has time to catch his breath before he’s being hauled to his feet. His back collides with the edge of the altar, thankfully bolted to the ground, and Papa kisses him deeply. A moment later, Copia finds himself spun around, bent over the altar, and his brain scrambles to keep up.

Fortunately, he gets a breather when Papa taps him gently on the ass and tells him, “Stay put.” Moving to the backside of the altar, Papa kneels, lifts the altar cloth and starts rummaging through the cabinet underneath, grumbling to himself until he finds what he’s looking for. With a triumphant sound he pulls out a small glass bottle. He winks at Copia and gives him a quick kiss as he stands. The bottle is familiar to Copia - it contains holy oil used for rituals, usually to anoint newly-ordained members of the clergy. Even more amusing than the sacrilegious nature of its current purpose, this particular batch was blessed by Papa’s father, Papa Nihil, shortly before his retirement. The old man would probably have a stroke if he knew his son was about to use this sacred ceremonial oil to fuck Copia on the altar in the ministry’s most solemn place of worship.

Copia feels a chill creep up his back when Papa lifts his cassock, but the cold is soon replaced with the warmth radiating from Papa’s body as he leans in close. He removes his right glove, dropping it onto the altar next to Copia’s shoulder, and a moment later Copia feels a slick finger pressing inside him. Papa is gentle, as always, but his impatience his obvious, and Copia has only barely adjusted to the feeling of one finger before a second is added. Then, soon, a third. Papa knows Copia’s limits as well as Copia knows his - they’ve had plenty of fun testing them together over the years. He knows what Copia can take, what he likes, and he knows the slight burn only enhances his pleasure. He has also been known to turn Copia into a desperate, whimpering mess using just his fingers, but there will be time for that later. For now, the foreplay has dragged on long enough for both of them.

When Papa finally pushes inside of him, Copia drops his head onto the altar, the velvet cloth smooth against his heated skin. The way his body stretches around Papa’s cock is incredible. Papa kisses his shoulder blades, caresses his back as he adjusts to the sensation. It should be a soothing gesture, but every one of Copia’s nerves is alight and he trembles under the touch, rocks his hips back, hungry for more, more, _now._

Papa fucks him torturously slow at first, each drag of his cock more agonizing than the last. Copia knows Papa is only making sure he doesn’t hurt him - he _knows_ , and he loves that Papa always takes such good care of him - but right now he wants nothing more than for Papa to pound him so hard he can’t walk for a week. And finally, _finally_ , after what seems like an hour, Papa obliges.

The nails of Papa’s gloved hand dig into Copia’s hip as he starts fucking him hard, driving into him at a bruising pace, while his bare hand goes to Copia’s hair, careful of the cut in his palm. Copia presses his face to the soft altar cloth, but Papa makes him look up, makes sure he can see him. He remembers something Papa said to him their first time together, when Copia kept his face buried in the pillows until Papa made him turn and face him. _Don’t hide from me._ The remarkable, sometimes almost frightening about Papa is that Copia has never been able to hide anything from him. For years Copia felt as if he were all but invisible, but Papa saw him. He sees him and all the secret parts of him that he would never show anyone else. And he has never made him feel ashamed or embarrassed for any of it; Papa has a way of making everything seem beautiful, of making everyone feel desirable. If, Lucifer forbid, there ever comes a time when, for whatever reason, their relationship comes to an end, Copia knows he would ever find anyone else who could make him feel the way Papa does.

Right now, Papa is making him feel fucking fantastic. Each thrust of his hips sends a lightning bolt through Copia’s body, every touch, every brush of his lips sets his skin on fire. And Copia is painfully hard, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs, crying out for attention. He tries to get some relief by snaking his hand down to wrap around his cock only for Papa to swat it away, to grab the offending hand place it on the altar. “Not yet,” Papa hisses in his ear, fingers wrapped tight around Copia’s wrist. “You tease me,” he says, “you put yourself on display for me in front of the entire congregation, and you think I will make this easy for you?” The only response Copia manages is a sob that breaks off in his throat as Papa snaps his hips forward to drive his point home, hitting Copia’s sweet spot and making his knees buckle. He can feel Papa smiling as he trails kisses along his spine. “You don’t get to come until I say. Understood?”

Copia can only nod weakly. Papa releases his wrist, grabbing his hips with both hands and fucking him harder, faster. It’s almost too good, and Copia has to bite his lip to keep quiet, or at least quiet enough not to attract attention should there be anyone in the hallway. He can imagine the look on Sister Imperator’s face if she walked in on him - her _favorite_ , as Papa teasingly calls him - in such a compromising position. Of course, right now he couldn’t care less about Imperator or anyone else, but later, when he’s thinking clearly, he might at least have the decency to be embarrassed.

Papa is getting louder, too, his breathy moans becoming deeper, thicker each time he pushes inside. The pace he sets is brutal and Copia will be feeling it long after they’re done. His ass will be sore, his limbs will ache from the strain of struggling to keep himself from collapsing onto the altar. Right now, his head is spinning, stars are forming behind his eyes with every thrust of Papa’s hips, and it’s so incredibly good that he wishes it would never end. Sadly, it is going to end, and sooner, maybe, than he would like.

He needs to come. It’s isn’t that he wants to - he wants to wait, he wants to be good for Papa. But he’s _going_ to come soon, whether he has permission or not, and no matter how much he tries to hold back, there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He opens his mouth to beg, to plead with Papa to have mercy on him, but nothing comes out. He tries again and the words dissolve into sobs as he repeats over and over: _please please please please._

His pleading his met with a dark huff of laughter and Copia groans, hangs his head and squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately not to come. Papa drapes himself across Copia’s back and sucks his earlobe between his teeth. “Now I’m just being cruel,” he whispers. Before Copia can protest any more, Papa’s hand wraps around his cock and squeezes. Copia whines, his vision blurs, but _finally_ , he thinks. “Alright, caro mio,” Papa says - _finally_ \- “you can come.”

With barely two strokes of Papa’s hand, Copia shatters. He’s too far gone to make any attempt to muffle the sound escapes him as he comes all over Papa’s hand, the floor, the altar cloth. His orgasm rips through him, lighting up his entire body from head to toe. He briefly thinks that he might actually die, each surge of pleasure as Papa fucks him through his release almost more than he can bear, until, slowly, the rooms starts to come back into focus. He slumps forward, the altar and Papa the only things that keep him from collapsing as his limbs give out, the last of his strength drained from him.

His body goes slack, offering no resistance has Papa continues to fuck him, his cock sliding in and out with filthy, wet sounds. All Copia can do is lie there and take it and try to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. Just trying to focus his breathing takes all the energy he has left. But still, there’s something else he wants, if only he can muster up the strength before Papa comes. That won’t be long; his breath is coming quicker and he’s running his hands up and down Copia’s back, arms, neck, kissing every inch of over-sensitive skin he can reach and rambling incoherently about how _good, amazing, beautiful_ Copia is.

Copia manages, barely, to push himself up. “Wait,” he croaks, inaudible. He tries again, reaching blindly behind him. “Wait.” He summons the last of his will power to stand up on his own. Papa looks at him, expression caught somewhere between annoyance and concern until Copia drops to his knees in front of him one more time. He understands, but Copia says the words anyway.

“Hic est sanguis illius.”

It’s blasphemy. It’s perfect, sweet blasphemy.

Papa’s eyes flutter shut, as if he needs a moment to take it all in. Then he cups Copia’s chin with his gloved hand, just as he had earlier, and in his other, rather than the sacred chalice, he strokes his cock. Copia opens his mouth and waits, and he is soon rewarded with a hot burst of come on his tongue. The sound Papa makes is heavenly, the way his long, lean body tenses and releases is beautiful, and Copia drinks in every second of it. Papa’s come spurts into his mouth, onto his chin, his cheek, his moustache. Copia wipes every bit of it off with his fingers and licks them clean until there isn’t a drop left.

With that, he gives out, leaning back and stretching his tired legs in front of him. Papa leans on the altar and tries to keep himself upright, but he soon joins Copia on the floor. Copia rests his head on Papa’s shoulder and they stay there, spent and exhausted, for what could be five minutes or five hours. Copia is pretty sure he dozes off, lulled to sleep by the pleasant post-coital haze and the beat of Papa’s heart. Someone will come to clean the chapel eventually, and this is the only thing finally motivates Copia to attempt to get to his feet.

The first try is unsuccessful, mostly because Papa has wrapped his arm around Copia’s waist and doesn’t want to let go. On the second try, Copia is able to stand. He takes in the scene around him. His cassock is stained, as is the altar cloth. The Ghouls on laundry duty will have something to whisper about. The bottle of oil lies on its side, half its remaining contents spilled onto the floor. Copia retrieves Papa’s robes from their crumpled heap, intending to return them to their owner only to find that he still hasn’t moved. Papa whines in protest as Copia pulls him to his feet, but he’s smiling, sated and blissful. Copia helps him get dressed before trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his own attire. It is, ultimately, beyond help, as is his hair, even after replacing his biretta. Papa isn’t any better; his mitre is crooked, his paint is hopelessly smeared. Anyone who passes either of them in the hallway on their way back to their respective quarters will know exactly what they’ve been doing.

Copia straightens Papa’s hat and returns his discarded glove, pressing a gentle kiss into his bandaged palm. The moment stretches on a beat too long. It’s time to go, but Copia doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to go back to his own room, to his work, to his empty bed. But they can’t stay here, and Papa surely has other, more important matters to attend to, so, even though he wants nothing more than to crawl into Papa’s arms and stay there until the world falls down around them, Copia turns to leave.

Before he reaches the door, Papa catches his arm. He rubs his thumb over the still-sensitive skin of Copia’s wrist, the faint touch sending a flutter through him. “I will see you tonight, yes?”

Again, there’s a tightness in Copia’s chest. This time it isn’t jealousy. He knows, now, that jealousy is pointless. Whatever else happens, whoever else Papa may take to his bed, however different Copia might sometimes wish things could be, they will still have this.

“Of course.”

And _this_ \- this is enough.


End file.
